


definitely, definitely no logic

by alchemystique



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2440913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemystique/pseuds/alchemystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rory should have known it would all come back around to him. Rory and Jess in the years after the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	definitely, definitely no logic

**Author's Note:**

> _an: I watched ONE EPISODE of Gilmore Girls and got so upset about Jess Mariano that this happened. I cannot watch GG. I CANNOT. Why did they put it all on Netflix???_   
>  _  
> This is all speculative post-series Literati - I never got over his last appearance and this was all I ever wanted from them. Will be done in two parts._

**  
definitely, definitely no logic**

The first time is an accident. She runs into him in a suburb outside of Philly (she'd meant to visit him once she had a moment to spare for herself, but as usual plans and Jess didn't ever work out quite right) in a coffee shop, arguing with a woman she recognizes as her two-rows-up fellow reporter, the one who got here because she'd been sleeping with the editor of some up-and-coming political news website (Or so the rumors said. She's not much for letting rumors be the final judgment on a person.)

She recognizes his voice as she's pleading with the barista to _please, don't leave room, for all that is holy don't leave room in her red-eye_ , and her gaze darts to the corner of the room - he's got a stack of papers littered on the table around him, a mug of something still steaming, making watermarks on one of his stacks, and a blazer thrown over a plush loveseat, and Margot Fletcher has stars in her eyes.  
[[MORE]]  
It's not hard to see why - Jess has always had that way about him, pulling satellites in from orbit with those broody hooded eyes and his incredibly intense debates on anything from literature to paper versus plastic - he always sounds so informed, even when he must have no clue what he's talking about.

He catches her eye as he's throwing around a wild hand gesture, and even after all this time something catches in his gaze - he doesn't stumble over his words (why would he, wordsmith that he is), but he doesn't exactly look away from her, either, and as she reaches blindly for the paper cup handed off to her she thinks she sees the corner of his lips tic up in a grin.

As she approaches the table she catches the last leg of his ramble. "Look, I'm not saying Lizzie and Darcy don't have a great romance, it's good. But Jane Austen wrote satire, and Lizzie only decided she might like Darcy after she saw Pemberley." His gaze flits to Rory as she nears the table. "I always preferred Persuasion anyway."

The irony isn't lost on her - him either, if the way he straightens his shoulders and gives her one of his sparingly gifted genuine smiles, yanking out the chair closest to him with all the aplomb of a man used to uninvited guests is anything to go by.

\------

Margot talks about him for days afterwards, apparently never catching on to the fact that the moment Rory had settled into her seat she'd been forgotten for the rest of the time they were there, begging Rory for details about the man. Rory happily provides them - she's amused, mostly, that after so long she's finally found herself amidst a group of people who think Jess is the bees knees (Oh god how he'd cringe and frown) - but then, here she is, crammed onto a bus with a bunch of twenty-somethings, all of them living off per diem and caffeine and the excitement of this trip, listening to the Jess Mariano Cinderella story and feeling, deep in their bones, that subtle ache to toss aside their press passes and go howl at the moon.

She calls him once she's settled in her hotel room in Iowa - she's had his number all this time (Luke always seems uncomfortable handing her over any new numbers or addresses for Jess, but Rory, even when she hated Jess, has always received them with grace) but after a twenty-minute chat over coffee before they both had to rush out the door she feels like there is more to say.

There is always more to say, with Jess. Always.

He answers on the second ring. "Rory." Apparently Luke has been complicit in giving away her contact information, as well.

"Hey," she says, and feels that rush of memory - sixteen and curled comfortably on her bed, the phone propped on her shoulder as she flicked through an annotated copy of Howl (again), his voice calm and maybe happy as he asked her about her day.

"Not that I'm not happy to hear from you, but to what do I owe the pleasure?"

It's good, that he's happy to hear from her, at least. Things with Jess have always been complicated, but she hadn't exactly said goodbye on the best of terms, a year ago. Even then, he'd been firmly in Rory's corner, though - _"Hey, if it makes you feel any better, you can always tell him we did...something."_

"Nothing, really, I just... we had to leave in a bit of a hurry, and I just wanted to...catch up, I guess."

"Catch up." He says it with a curious edge to his voice, like maybe he _is_ still angry with her, after all, but then - "Yeah. I'd like that."

They talk for four hours, and after the first her roommate throws a pillow at her head and demands Rory let her sleep. Rory steals a blanket and sneaks onto the rooftop, feeling giddy and terrified and a hundred other things as Jess' voice hums in her ear. 

\------

"So, uh, any advice for a first time best man?"

She laughs over the line, folding another blazer lengthwise into her luggage as she readies herself for the flight to Oregon. 

"Usually my answer would involve a non-answer about having never been to strip club and therefore incapable of making an informed suggestion, but this is Luke, so I'm thinking take him out for a beer and try not to let TJ annoy you both to an early grave. And, uh... I don't know, make sure he knows the difference between a vest and a cummerbund."

" _I_ don't know what either of those things are. I'm doomed. We're all doomed. Maybe I should suggest they elope, instead."

"Don't you _dare_ , my grandmother would kill you. And then raise you from the dead to kill you a second time."

"Might still be worth it."

She's close to the end of this madness - October 2008 and only a few spare weeks to go until voting day, it's been more than a year on the road already, and if she's being honest with herself she's ready for a break. This has been everything she's ever wanted - the chance to travel as she works, see new things, meet new people, and it's been a chaotic _dream_ , all of it, every city, every small-town high school gym, every cramped hotel room and even the crappy coffee she's been living off of for six-month stints before she gets a week at Luke's to return her to the land of properly caffeinated. 

Luke, the wonderful man that he is, has insisted on keeping any wedding planning until she's not spending months on the road, but now that it's all coming to a close things are kicking into high gear - she spent all day yesterday with two webzine writers over her shoulder on the bus, rating her mother's dress choices on some sort of scale Rory didn't really understand (she hadn't asked for their help, but the bus is cramped and they all know each other a little too well for boundaries, at this point) - they all think the Vera Wang is overstated and gaudy (their words, not hers) but they agree it's better than the Alfred Angelo. 

Rory shoots her an email telling her to choose her own dress, and gets a smiley face with it's tongue sticking out at her in response.

Jess laughs over the line, and Rory can't help but bite her lip - they've been talking like this for almost a year, now, hours-long conversations and random visits when they're close by, but neither one of them has broached the subject of what happens why Rory is stationary, again.

It's easy, really, to imagine falling into a pattern with him, their future painted out before her in vivid color - driving up to see each other, unhurried trysts in cramped apartments, his voice lilting over passages of books and his breath warm on her neck as he reads her latest article over her shoulder, spur-of-the-moment dates and maybe even a place of their own to share, self-built bookshelves lining the walls and his hands covered in ink stains from the press. 

But it's all some nebulous dream, really - they're two strangers who have slowly begun to reform a friendship, so different from when they were teenagers and yet still very much the same. She doesn't know what this is to him, doesn't really know what it is to her, only that she looks forward to his phone calls more than she does her morning coffee (and her lunch coffee, and her afternoon coffee, and her 'I have three hours til the deadline it's 4 in the morning' coffee) and that...that is a lot to take in.

It's the one thing they don't talk about, and Rory is beginning to think it's time for them to have that conversation.

"Hey, so who are you bringing to the wedding? Not some creepy Ken-doll-haircut reporter, I hope?"

Rory grins, and she shrugs even though she knows he can't see, turning to lean against the bed frame. "I hadn't really thought about it. I'm sure you're actually shocked to hear this, but I haven't actually had much time to wrangle a date while jumping from city to city for the last year. Why?"

"I was just wondering if I'd have to run interference between my date and yours all night long - she's not much for Ken-doll reporter types."

Her stomach drops. It's not like they don't talk about their personal lives - Jess tells her all about his train-wreck first dates and his blind set ups, and she tells him about so and so from The Atlantic who bought her coffee for a week straight before she had to let him down with a "I drink my coffee black, please stop ordering me lattes". It's just...the wedding is three months out, and if Jess already had a date...

She'd been under the assumption they'd just go together, and quietly mock the whole proceeding tucked into dark corners with a bottle of wine shared between them.

"Well, if she's your date I'd be surprised if she could get along with anyone who wore their hair like an anatomically deficient doll," she says, and her voice, thank god, doesn't waver. "I'll probably just go stag."

"I'm sure your grandmother can be relied upon to find you a handsome gentleman caller."

"Oh joy."

He laughs, bright and happy, and she wonders if she's talked about this woman before, if she's been so tangled up in her ten-year plan for him that she just hasn't noticed.

"Well, I'm about ten seconds from being dragged bodily out of my room," she tells him, thankful he can't see her blinking eyes and the lie in them. "So I should let you go."

"Right." She tries not to read too much into the disappointed edge to his voice. "Wouldn't want to make out burgeoning star journalist late for another ten hour bus ride of hell."

"They're not so bad." The door to her room clicks open and Margot grins at her as she slides in, taking a dive at her own bed. "Promise me you won't even _mention_ Elvis impersonators with licenses to wed to Luke, alright?"

"Scouts honor."

"You were never a boyscout."

"Everyone's a boyscout when they make a promise on their honor."

Rory snorts, and lets the comment go. "I'll talk to you soon, Jess."

"Bye, Rory."

She stares at her phone for a long time after he hangs up, until Margo groans, rolling over to size Rory up. 

"You look like someone just kicked a puppy."

Her sigh is drawn out and sad. "Just...realizing I don't really know my friends as well as I think."

She gives Rory an all-knowing look, but lets the issue drop in favor of reliving the epic failure of her just-finished coffee date with Senator So-And-So's aide.

Rory lets her voice drift across the room and wonders if this is the sum of her life - if she'll spend the next ten years sleeping in hotels across the world, learning about her friends lives from phone calls and texts and emails, getting all her gossip from work acquaintances, her friends lives passing her by while she builds up the career she's always dreamed of. 

\------

She's barely hung up on her mother when her phone is ringing again, and over the din of celebration she answers, brushing paper confetti off her shoulder as she slips away from the group huddled around the table, all on their third beer and debating whether the new president will have education reform or the economy on his docket first.

"Hey," she says when she closes the closet door behind her, plunging herself into darkness, and Jess sounds like maybe he's had a few drinks, himself.

"So are the festivities as lavish as to be expected?"

"Worse. It's like the DAR hooked up with Party City and had a thousand patriotic babies."

"Ah, the smell of America in the autumn."

His words are definitely a little slurred, and for once they're in the same time-zone, but she thinks he's definitely ahead of her in alcohol consumption. "Any reason for the call?"

"I read your last article. It was good. Really good."

"Thanks. I was going for Woodward but I think it came off more late years Cronkite."

"No, it was definitely all Gilmore."

She's had a few beers herself, and the way he says it makes her heart skip a beat in her chest. There's a broom handle digging into her back, and her heels are killing her, but she feels lightheaded and happy. "You're a sweet talker when you're drunk."

"I only speak the truth."

She hums, low in her throat, her mind lingering on the idea of seeing him again once wedding plans start to kick into high gear. She misses him, misses her family and her friends. "Yeah, well, you may be a little bit right. A few papers offered me a provisional spot, once the election was over."

"I knew you'd hit it big sooner rather than later."

"Don't get too excited, it's not, like, the _Times_ , or anything."

"It will be." He says it with all the ease of a man who couldn't be more sure of what he's saying. She wishes she was still as sure of herself as he is of her. "Not too long and you'll have to call me via satellite phone from some tent city in the jungle to tell me about all your foreign corresponding."

Her smile threatens to break her face in two. "We'll see. They all want answers within two weeks, and I'm not sure how any of them will feel about me being out of the office for two months to plan my mothers wedding."

"I have faith in your ability to charm them into _three_ months, at least."

"That makes one of us."

Over the line, she can hear someone yelling his name, and he huffs a deep breath into the phone. "Hey, I gotta go, but congratulations, Rory. You deserve it."

"Thanks," she says, feeling the pin pricks of tears in her eyes as she realizes just how long it's been since she's heard that sort of praise out of his mouth. "Have a good -."

The call drops, and Rory sits in the dark, fighting back tears for a long moment before she composes herself enough to return to her friends.

\------

Two days before the wedding she finally makes it to Stars Hollow. Lane has been a godsend, running errands and getting the final touches in place, and Rory slides into the diner ten minutes before close to find Jess manning the counter.

"And the prodigal child arrives," he says, a smile on his face as he takes her in. She hasn't slept in almost 36 hours, determined to submit her article and not have to worry about it for the duration of the wedding festivities. The dark circles under her eyes will probably need a bit of work, but she lets out a deep sigh, grinning at the mug of hot coffee Jess slides across her way.

"You are a god amongst men, Mariano," she tells him, savoring the smells of the diner and the warmth of his smile. His hair is shorn short along the sides and slicked back on top, a loose fitting vest over a band tee, and she snorts at it - he's taking his role as an art scene urbanite with amusing seriousness.

"Half the town knew you were here the moment your car passed the welcome sign. I figured I'd brew you a fresh pot. It's not like you won't drink the whole thing before you leave."

She's _missed_ him, missed this place, this silly little town and all it's quirky people. She's definitely missed Luke's coffee, too.

"When did you get in?" she asks as she practically inhales her first cup, and he raises an amused eyebrow as he holds swings around to grab more of it.

"Week ago. I always forget exactly how eccentric this place is until about thirty seconds after I hit town square." He sounds almost wistful about it, and she shoots him a knowing grin. He's leaned in close to her, hands clasped over the bar and his face close to hers, and Rory lets her gaze linger on his neatly cropped nails and the deep grooves of his knuckles.

Her copy of his book, tucked into the purse on the stool next to her, dog-eared and worn, is a burning reminder of all that has changed between them, but _this_ feels familiar. Feels like _home_.

The moment falls apart as footsteps echo down the stairs, and she catches sight of curling blonde hair and bright green eyes as Jess hurries to straighten.

Rachel, as she's gleaned from recent conversations, met Jess when they'd both gone to reach for a first edition To Have and To Have Not (always with the Hemingway) in some used bookstore a few blocks away from Truncheon. Rachel had gotten the book, and Jess had gotten a strip of paper with a phone number on it, and the rest had been history, like some artsy rom-com complete with low-lit poetry readings and cheesy indie music and a flurry of blink-and-you'll-miss-it pop culture references.

She smiles when she sees Rory at the counter, sliding in beside Jess as she reaches out a hand to introduce herself. "Hi! You must be Rory."

"Oh, I must," she responds, but Rachel doesn't miss a beat.

"All anyone in Stars Hollow has talked about the last few days is Rory Gilmore. I'm guessing that won't stop now you're here. But hey, I read your piece about the influence of nineteenth century novels on the feminist movement - pretty engaging for such a dry topic. Oh. I mean - not that - God I should really shut up while I'm ahead. I just meant I liked it."

Despite herself, Rory finds a smile curling her lips up, genuine and amused as the woman runs a nervous hand through her hair. "Thanks."

As it turns out, Rachel is a Harvard grad, herself, the kind of woman with a mind so fast her words trip over themselves to catch up, and Rory likes her. She's a good fit for Jess, even this mellowed out version of him, her words as caustic and quick-witted as his, her smiles genuine and freely given, her praise easy but always carefully thought out.

She's nothing Rory might have expected, but Jess seems to still on bated breath when Rachel scurries up the stairs to grab Rory a copy of a book of short stories she just _has to read_.

"She's great, Jess."

His responding sigh of relief blows out through his nose, and the three of them spend the next two hours circled around one of Luke's tables, catching up or getting to know each other, only ending their night when Rory's head droops tiredly towards the table.

Rachel offers to drive her home, and when Rory hugs Jess in goodnight it feels a bit like letting him go.

\------

The wedding is perfect (even Emily Gilmore agrees, despite the cold carriage rides and Babette and Patty's long and inappropriate toast) and Rory is actually thankful for Rachel, who spends most of the night with her arm tucked in Rory's elbow, needling stories about the townsfolk out of her while they drink champagne and enjoy watching Taylor try to dance.

As it gets later in the night, Rachel drags her out onto the dance floor for the Macarena, and Rory's mind is fuzzy and warm, so she doesn't even protest.

They dance for a while (Jess even joins them, to Rory's eternal shock, swinging Rachel around in an effortless swing dance that completely surprises the residents of Stars Hollow) until Rachel begs off on sore feet, all but shoving Jess at Rory just as one last slow song trickles sweetly through the air.

"Make him dance or he'll get rusty," Rachel says, and Rory swallows down the lump in her throat when he tugs her into him. Luke and her mom are in a close embrace, spinning in small circles with her head tucked against his shoulder, and her grandfather is leading her grandmother in a flamboyant, out of tune waltz, and Jess' face is close to hers as he takes the lead.

"You never fail to surprise me," she tells him as they spin.

"Gotta keep the people on their toes."

They're quiet, for a moment, and Rory darts a glance at their feet so she doesn't catch his gaze. 

"I'm happy for you, you know. The book, and the printing house, and Rachel - I knew you could do it."

"Do _what_ , exactly?"

"Find yourself. Be happy. It's just...nice, to see you finally _fit_."

His gaze holds hers for a long time before he clears his throat, eyes darting over her shoulder. 

"Yeah, well. I had help."

The fingers curled around her palm squeeze for a moment, and Rory's smile is a little misty-eyed. He presses a dainty, close-mouthed kiss to the backs of her fingers when the dance ends, and as they walk side by side back to the table Rachel gives them both a wide, conspiratorial grin, holding up a bottle of wine as her gaze darts to the sliding glass doors frosted with ice.

They bundle up in heavy coats and steal blankets from the linen closet of the inn, curling up beneath the low hanging moon as they share the bottle between them, and they don't leave until the wine is long gone and their fingers are stiff with cold.


End file.
